A Royal Encounter
by Vespera Zeta
Summary: As another vorn approaches its end and the Celebration of New Light commences, a Royal Gala is hosted by the Grand Duke of Praxus and his household for the elite of the city-state, its territories and allies, and a selection of non-noble guests. However, no event involving high society is ever as simple as a mere holiday celebration. {Royalty/Nobility AU}
1. Chapter 1: Overture

Inspired by selections from the full score for The Nutcracker ballet by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

I also take inspiration from a smattering of other sources and unidentified prompts I have come across in recent years. If anything that appears in this work is your creation and you wish to be acknowledged or the content removed/altered, please message me and I will make modifications as necessary.

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 **A Royal Encounter**

 _Chapter 1_

It was a frigid, winter evening in Praxus. The chilled air swirled and swelled with the periodic bursts of penetratingly icy wind, carrying the delicate snow crystals in a whirling dance amongst the city's glimmering lights and gleaming crystals as thousands of flakes cascaded toward and blanketed the immaculate streets and walkways. Yet, in contrast to the freezing temperatures and accompanying quiet and stillness, a thrum of excitement, joy, and warmth infused the energy of the beautiful city-state in anticipation of the upcoming Celebration of New Light.

This was precisely so in a particular, small family apartment in a cozy, residential district which primarily housed artists, musicians, dancers, and other creatives who had secured support and stability in one of Cybertron's centers of such pursuits.

Bright peals of laughter, cherry chatter, and exuberant outbursts of delight followed two younglings who shadowed their older sibling as he merrily danced to and sang with the festive music playing from the living area's media system while decoratively arranging of warm, white lights, glowing crystal pieces of varying but coordinating colors, and even some organic elements gifted by a neighbor. A slim, deceptively dainty femme of primarily white and jade with black and chrome accents observed her second eldest creation - by half a breem only, as her twins constantly interjected - entertaining her younglings with a soft smile as she rested her crossed forearms on the bar ledge of the kitchen, reveling in the reprieve of warmth, entertainment, and amusement.

Prompted by the sound of soft shifting, Arabesque momentarily turned away from the ongoing scene to verify that her youngest, Coda, a very young sparkling who was taking after her sire's coloration of silver and white and soon to be a vorn old, was still settled in recharge in the specialized, tabletop seat next to her. Satisfied with the sparkling's restfulness and lack of need for her immediate attention, her attention was redirected at the uptick in high-pitched squeals across the room, causing her doorwings to twitch and flick at the grating sensation. The cause seemed to be some ambitious attempt by her recently come-of-age creation who was now sprawled on the floor, quivering with his own laughter and loosely tangled in the strands of lights which he carried in loops over his arms.

"Be careful, Jazz," she admonished. "I don't want to be spending the holidays at the medical center."

Grinning sheepishly, Jazz untangle himself (mostly) with some assistance from his siblings. Effortlessly leaping to his peds, he dipped into a bow with excessively extravagant flourishes. "Of course, madam, 't would be a shame, a disgrace, an ignominy, nay, a scandal!" Cheeky grin in place, he dimmed half of his visor in a wink at his siblings, who giggled uncontrollably at the jesting, repetitive pretension.

Before Jazz could continue with even more, increasingly ostentatious forms of apology, Arabesque rolled her optics and huffed as she spun around and focused on her task. Internally, she whispered an exasperated, pleading - and always reverent - prayer to Primus for strength and sanity to make it to the end of the metacycle and the new vorn.

Jazz chuckled at the deliberate dip, upward swing, and flare of his carrier's doorwings in indignation, as well as her muttering of what sounded like "smart-aft." He delighted in identifying ways to get a rise out of his too serious carrier, and it had become a bit of a game with his siblings.

Brushing invisible dust from his plating, Jazz resumed his interrupted activity of decorating their home and channeling his love and skills with music into entertaining his siblings.

The music transitioned to a light and bright, lyric-less piece that was perfect for incorporating and practicing some of his classical performance and formal-social dance styles. Jazz's spark lightened with pleasure and thrill as he flowed from toned-down leaps to pirouettes and arabesques into either part of generic or specifically arranged waltzes, quicksteps, or gavottes.

As he danced, taking momentary pauses to place a crystal here and affix a segment of lights there, Jazz noticed Minuet and Mezzo attempting to copy him, so he also guided them through the simpler steps, even a few lifts to their delights, and acted as their partner. At their prompting, he would occasionally step back and execute some complex movement, to which they would cheer and applaud. Glee, amusement, and warm contentment in the lively yet simple evening was palpable.

"My turn," exclaimed Mezzo, the second youngest, as the music built in another slight crescendo and Jazz completed a quick twirl.

Securing the unstrung segment of lights draped over his shoulder, Jazz lifted and swept Mezzo through the air, resettled him on the floor, and then lightly held one servo and lifted their joined arms for Minuet to twirl under. Infectious laughter and a beaming smile exuded from Mezzo as Minuet clapped and rushed forward for his turn, mimicking Jazz's earlier formality and what the youngling had passively watched in Jazz's lessons with their sire with a bow.

Mirroring his brother with amusement, Jazz extended is servo, palm up. "May I have the pleasure of this dance, monsieur?" Minuet eagerly nodded, and they were off.

Back in the kitchen, Arabesque admired the inherent grace and effortless elegance Jazz possessed, even in the simplest movements, whimsical and playful actions, and less-refined styles. While individual practice with their immensely talented sire obviously contributed to, refined, and broadened Jazz's prowess, and while Jazz definitely had further to go if he intended to also pursue a life in music of some form, she knew Jazz had a natural talent that could one day rival and, perhaps, exceed that of both his genitors. It warmed her spark to know that at least one of her creations so obviously inherited such aspects of herself. Much of his personality may reflect his sire, and both genitors could claim the inherent talent, but of all her creations, Jazz most clearly reflected his carrier in frame, the way he carried himself, and his notably, yet often masked, sharp processor.

The front door of the apartment slid open and closed with a distinctive sound, interrupting her musings and halting the frolicking and merry cacophony in the living area as all helms swiveled to see a mostly silver mech of a lithe, athletic build saunter into the room from the short hallway that led to the entrance.

"Sire!"

A flurry of motion and the light pounding of two sets of small peds accompanied blurs of navy and white racing to greet the newcomer with embraces and simultaneous, detailed babble as the silver mech lifted both younglings with some effort.

Parsing through the bedlam, Silverstream grinned and merely listened, glancing and nodding in greeting and intrigue to Jazz, who was still in the middle of the living area, struggling to detangle himself from the remaining lights.

"Sounds like a busy orn," Silverstream said when he caught a pause in the storytelling stream. He shifted his gaze between the younglings in his arm with a knowing yet questioning look, optics shining with barely-masked amusement which Jazz caught as he removed the last, clinging strand from his plating and tossed the it on the sofa before stepping over to the media system and lowering the volume. "Hopefully you didn't drive your carrier too much up the wall..."

Silence. Another pointed, amber gaze directed at the two younglings before shifting piercingly to Silverstream's light blue gaze. Subtly shared, conspiring glances passed between the two younglings as the blue visor of their older brother watched on in amusement, recalling the myriad of similar scenes in which he and his twin were under scrutiny. Cackles suddenly broke the silence, Minuet and Mezzo failing to suppress their mirth at their carrier's peeved expression before quickly covering the slip with contrite looks as Silverstream raised a brow.

Silverstream hummed with an amused smirk. "I thought so." Glancing at his mate before leaning closer with a stern expression, dropping his voice to a stage whisper, he added conspiringly with a slight grin, "Did my idea work?"

"Silver!" Arabesque indignantly shouted. All their creations laughed at their sire as he contritely met his mate's annoyed visage.

Silverstream set Minuet and Mezzo down with a wink, which prompted their giggling, before striding over to Arabesque, who stood with servos on hips, slim doorwings flared. He kissed the slightly shorter femme, whispering an apology and waited tensely.

After a moment, shaking her helm in exasperated acceptance, Arabesque gave her mate a quick peck before turning to finish assembling dinner with her mate while inquiring about his rehearsal, doorwings twitching occasionally in contentment and attention.

Jazz smiled softly as he watched his creators while Minuet and Mezzo ran off down the hallway toward the berthrooms, admiring Silverstream and Arabesque's relationship not for the first time. His sire was very laidback, full of energy, upbeat, and he adored his family. However, Silverstream could be serious in a sparkbeat when a situation warranted it, such as a prank gone too far and becoming dangerous, seriously offending the subject, purposeful conversations with his oldest creations in determining futures and teaching important lessons or complex issues, and his mate. Silverstream enjoyed his occupation and relative success, and he was truly exceptional considering his fortune in having the Grand Duke of Praxus as his patron. However, as he admitted to Jazz while discussing Jazz's aspirations, he found the most pleasure and fulfillment in his bonded and five children.

Although different considering circumstances, Arabesque echoed the sentiment when Jazz later inquired on the same topic.

Listening to the quiet music, the intermittent clanking and quiet murmuring of his creators in the kitchen, and the muffled sounds of his siblings playing in one of the berthrooms, Jazz absently fingered the empty, white sigil set inconspicuously into the plating of his inner, left forearm, shaped like a shield and bordered with silver. Every Cybertronian in existence had the same sigil on one of their forearms, and it would remain blank until they came into physical contact with their sparkmate. At least, that was what all evidence, experts, and legend indicated. All Jazz knew was that his was blank, and he was not sure if he was ready for it to suddenly fill with colors, patterns, or glyphs.

Already, only a few vorns since reaching their majority of 300 vorns, a few of his friends wore saturated shields. Just a couple decaorns ago, Jazz almost literally ran into his childhood best friend, who drifted apart when he went directly on to university while Jazz took time off to determine what he wanted to do and save enough to pay tuition. Jazz had chosen to walk the short distance back home after working his shift at a nearby, popular café. Exuding encompassing bliss and joy, his friend had promptly thrust his arm toward Jazz where the sigil, filled with twining lines of each mech's dominant colors forming a calligraphy glyph for longevity, acted like a beacon to proclaim his engagement to the tall, successful looking mech who's arm was wrapped with his own. Shocked but happy for his friend, and after adequately admiring the sigil enough to satisfy his friend's desire for such attention, Jazz congratulated both mechs before hurrying onward, quelling a surprisingly vicious flare of jealousy he felt at the juxtaposition of his blank sigil with his friend's completed one.

Checking that his creators were not finished or needing his help, Jazz slid into the built-in window nook in the corner of the living area furthest from the kitchen, protruding slightly over the street below. Curling up into the nook comfortably, Jazz admired the warm glow cast by the lights from other windows and the additional, illuminated crystal accents for the New Light celebration on the existing streetlights over the otherwise typically dark and bare street. Mecha bundled under grey and black cloaks ambled along the sidewalk as they chatted on their way home, light traffic carefully drove by, an Enforcer further down the street finished logging a citation, and the odd couple, clustered together for warmth in the cold night, set off for an evening out. He focused on the couple, their happy expressions, the subtle brushes against each other, the loving way they looked at each other even as they bantered or even argued, the way the stronger appearing of the two - an aerial, in fact - gently tugged his standard Praxian companion closer in protection when a mecha in vehicle format whizzed by too fast or when three mecha on the opposite side of the street, who were clearly not from the artisan district, seemed to shout something suggestive at them.

Pressing his cheek against the window, shuttering his optics at the coolness, Jazz contemplated the conflicting contentment and dissatisfaction he felt at this time every vorn. He fancied himself an island, able to take on the strongest storms with howling gales and relentless, crushing waves alone. However, watching the couple, recalling his peers' engagements and bondings, and even noting his creators' current playfulness as his carrier fussed over finishing touches while his sire "assisted" made him keenly aware of a part deep within his spark which yearned for lasting companionship, completion, and unwavering love which his family could not fill.

He sighed in annoyance with himself and continued to watch the snow accumulate at the edges of the window and the street below, rapidly erasing the indentations left by passing peds. He loved this holiday, but Primus, it made him feel lonely and unbearably sappy. Hence, he preferred to remain active throughout the celebration, entertaining his siblings, working extra shifts at the café, maybe even composing a new piece of music if inspiration struck.

As the young, mostly Polyhexian ruminated, he noticed an unfamiliar mech in a white cloak trimmed in gold and azure, and with an emblem embroidered in gold in the center that Jazz glimpsed when a particularly strong gust of wind blasted through the street. He was accompanied by two large, clearly warframe mecha. The three strangers strode purposefully along the side of the street Jazz's family's apartment was on, reading each address plate carefully. Straightening, the ever-curious Jazz focused as closely as he could, attempting to make out any identifying markings while hoping for another gust of wind to twist the smaller mech's cloak so that he could have a better look at the emblem it displayed. However, to his disappointment, the placement of his perch, along with the blurring smears of melting then refreezing snow on the window, placed him just too high to indisputably discern what looked like a noble House crest.

"Jazz," Arabesque called from across the room where the rest of his family was settling into their seats at the barely large enough table, shattering his focus. He had been so focused, he did not even hear or sense them moving to and gathering there. "Come on, it's time to fuel."

"Coming. Sorry!"

Jazz took one last glance out the window, dismayed as he realized the three mechs had disappeared before he could identify from where they came. Resigned to the frustration of an unsolved mystery, he stood and jogged over to the table, taking his usual seat to his sire's left, who sat at the head of the table. The seat to his right with conspicuously unoccupied.

Each member had a standard cube of mid-grade placed before them, though each contained different additives based on nutrient requirements, in the case of Mezzo and Minuet, or preference. Arrayed on plates and trays along the length of the table were a small selection of homemade treats.

Jazz picked up the cube before him and took a slow sip, savoring the lightly sweetened fuel, before placing the cube next to the small plate and perusing the confection selection. He ultimately decided on one his favorite puff wafers of his carrier's own creation.

"Only one tonight," Arabesque chided, intervening as Minuet reached to grab one of the larger gels in addition to the rust-dusted silicon wafer and a miniature copper cake, beautifully decorated with a glaze and pyrite crystals arranged on top, already populating his plate.

Much protest ensued. Carrier's rule stood.

Just as Jazz snuck a second of his favorite copper-dipped, chocotar puff wafers, a sharp knock on the front door caused everyone to pause. A moment passed, and then a second, more insistent rap followed.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Arabesque asked, first looking at Silverstream and then Jazz. Both shook their helms, and then Silverstream stood to answer the door. Curious, Jazz stood and followed as his carrier kept the two younglings from also following.

Halting at the end of the entrance hallway and peering around the corner, Jazz was surprised to see the very three mechs he had observed earlier conversing with his sire, who clearly knew and recognized them.

The two warframed Praxians were intimidating in size and in their stern expressions as they flanked their smaller companion. They did not seem to faze Silverstream, however, who easily inquired about specific, unique aspects about each mech's life. Jazz belatedly recognized them as guards of the House of the Crystal Saber, their uniform coloration, attentive optics and looming, motionless doorwings, and overall demeanor a characteristic giveaway. He remembered when he was very young, about half Mezzo's age, when he accompanied his sire to the Royal Palaise for a couple of decaorns while his carrier was away for some reason; he had watched the guards train and even encountered them once when he had wandered off to explore (he had also received quite the lecture that evening too). He also remembered a more recent time as a mechling, soon after his ability to transform activated, when he nearly collided with a guarded procession while chasing after his twin, Ricochet, for swiping a datapad containing a special note to a mech he liked. That had been a fun one to explain to his thoroughly embarrassed and irate creators, an unamused captain of the Praxian Royal Guard, and a displeased yet forgiving prince.

Jazz carefully avoided optic contact with these two guards now.

He did not recognize the other Praxian mech, though his sire seemed more familiar with him. He was a little taller than Jazz, who was tallest in the family, and his plating was primarily navy and grey with accents of yellow, of which two thin lines ran the length of his broad doorwings along the upper third of the expanses, and a white chevron. He spoke cordially, though his frame language was all business, formal, and noticeably tense.

The smaller mech - Solarlight, he overheard - withdrew a silver envelope covered in an ornate, embossed calligraphy design around its border from his subspace, extending it to his sire. "On behalf of his royal highness, Lord Apollo of the House of the Crystal Saber, I present an invitation to the Royal Gala."

Jazz could have sworn that, around his astonishment, he saw a flash of disdain cross Solarlight's face as his sire delicately accepted the fine envelope. Perhaps it was merely a trick of the light as the expression was fleeting.

Jazz could not see his sire's face. If he could, he would have seen a tumultuous array of confusion, curiosity, contemplation, and consternation. Optics riveted to the elegant script denoting the intended recipients of the invitation, he absently nodded. "Thank you, Solarlight. I'll have the response to Deltawave tomorrow or the next orn."

With a curt nod, Solarlight and his guards turned and left without another word or any diversions.

Pressing a tab next to the door to override the block on its automated closing function, Silverstream walked past Jazz and back to the table, retaking his seat and placing the envelope on the table before him. Jazz followed and hovered at his sire's shoulder, leaning against the raised back of the seat.

"Well?" Arabesque asked, taking the seat next to her mate while Minuet and Mezzo shifted their attention from sire to carrier to Jazz, and then repeating. Jazz glanced at Silverstream, uncertain whether he should share the news before his sire but itching to reveal the, in his opinion, exceedingly exciting honor. He unquestionably spotted his designation on that envelope.

Carefully, Silverstream broke the pristine seal on the flap and removed the matching silver insert. Jazz eagerly read over the silver Polyhexian's shoulder.

 _Lord Apollo, Sovereign Grand Duke of Praxus and its territories,_

 _and the House of the Crystal Saber_

 _cordially invite_

 _Sir Silverstream, Bt., and his bonded Lady Arabesque,_

 _and Messrs. Jazz and Ricochet,_

 _to the_

 _Royal Gala at the Royal Palaise of Praxus_

 _during the Celebration of New Light._

Beneath the invitation was included the specific date, time, expected formality, and other pertinent details which did not register in Jazz's processor above his elation and bewilderment. He, the second oldest (by half a breem) of two notable but not famous dancers, albeit recipients of the highest ranked patron in the city-state, received an invitation to the premiere, elite, formal event of the vorn. The excitement he felt had him discernably quivering.

His processor immediately constructed hundreds of fantastical scenarios surrounding his attendance: astounding the nobility with his dancing, musical, and even intellectual prowess; dining on succulent, lavish cuisine amongst royals; exploring the esteemed, massive Palaise and its gardens; forming valuable connections through socializing; maybe even sharing a dance with a particularly attractive, intriguing mech or femme. Sure, he was realistic enough to realize that even if he attended, there would likely be stratification, of which he would be most subject to restriction. Although, the Grand Duke was renowned for his belief in fairness, justice, and responsibility while upholding traditions, expectations, and order...

However, one obstacle occluded this particular dream: the two crearors before him who were clearly discussing the invitation extended to their eldest creations over the privacy of their bond. Squeezing the upper edge of his sire's chair as he struggled to stay his swelling exhilaration, Jazz resisted the urge to plead. He came by his stubbornness honestly, and it would be a serious disadvantage to display any lack of maturity at this stage.

After what felt like an eternity but was really only about a breem, dual contemplative, scrutinizing optics fixed on him. Visor gleaming in tempered hopefulness as he met their scrutiny, barely resisting the urge to squirm, Jazz awaited their verdict.

It was Mezzo's sweet voice which broke the impromptu stare-off. "What's it?" Midnight blue servos grasped for the sliver sheet that Silverstream and Arabesque held contemplatively between them. At the same time, Minuet scrambled to his peds on top of Jazz's vacated chair, precariously stretching his small, white and crimson-accented frame over the table and balancing his weight on a single servo planted on the tabletop in an attempt to read the insert.

"Jazz and Rico get to go to the Gala?" Minuet exclaimed with a gasp. "No fair!"

The pall was broken.

Silverstream gave Jazz a look that clearly said, _we'll talk about it later_ , before he turned to humor his younger creations with descriptions and stories from past galas during which he had performed. Evidently still preoccupied yet radiating pride and her own wonder at the honor the invitation symbolized, Arabesque fussed at Minuet to get off the table and sit properly, as well as for both younglings to finish their meal.

Taking the cue and avidly listening to his sire's words, Jazz settled Minuet back into his seat, and then he reoccupied his own. All the while, Jazz reveled in the lack of an immediate refusal and continued his day-dreaming, as well as beginning to plan. Immaculately detailed guests, banquet tables filled with the highest quality of seasonal delights, and joors filled with the attention and appreciation of the affluent, noble, and respected of Praxus - and perhaps other regions of Cybertron too - awaited him. He would need to be equally prepared to meet expectations, from the shine of his plating to the grace of his movements in the standard set of Praxian social dances to his ability to converse intelligently and respectably with the nobility. He wanted to stand out, but not because of his inadequacies or social faux pas.

Listening to his sire and his siblings' questions and imaginations, and despite knowing the dedicated work he would need to apply in order to present himself in the way he - and likely his creators - envisioned, Jazz could only think of how much he could not wait for the end of the next two decaorns.

 ** _~o~_**

Ordered, hushed chaos aptly described the state of the Royal Palaise of Praxus with only a decaorn remaining until it would host the Royal Gala, and preparations were in full-swing. Servants and additional, hired hands hastened through the halls, wings, and multitude of rooms, going about purposefully and many carrying a myriad of items from seasonal décor, to stacks of the selected dishes for polishing and placement, to furniture pieces, and to simple messages across the massive estate. Everyone moved with orchestrated purpose according to the timeline and diligent coordination of the Master of the House, the head of all servants, in accordance with the House Lord, the Grand Duke. Outside, dedicated experts tended to and manicured the vast gardens and park to perfection, grooming pathways to immaculate neatness, pruning where needed, cultivating any new crystal growths, ensuring the flow and function of the numerous fountains and streams was adequate, and maintaining the world-renowned Helix Gardens, which were a part of the grounds and partly gifted to the public by an early ruler.

It was late in the afternoon as Prowl stood in the center of the principal ballroom, the Vitreus Hall, admiring the elegant and tastefully applied lighting, carefully grown and cultivated crystals of various hues, resonances, and species, and the inherently impressive, ornate and classical aesthetic of the room itself. Interior walls covered in rows of mirrors stretching to the high, illustrated ceiling reflected the golden hue of the setting sunlight entering from the directly opposite and parallel, massive windows and regularly interspersed, transparent-crystal doors, the latter of which opened onto an expansive balcony overlooking the closest gardens.

Amidst the bustle of the ongoing preparations, the young prince felt an encompassing sense of dread, which capitulated on his preexisting distaste for overly social occasions, particularly when the especially sycophantic and irritatingly posturing members of high society were involved. Consequently, this was also smothering his general enjoyment of the New Light festivities.

"There you are."

Prowl visibly startled at the rich, resonant voice that echoed across the massive room. Doorwings upright and flared, Prowl whirled around to see his sire leaning against the elevated, double door entrance which separated the State Apartments and the site of the official running of Praxus from the grand ballroom.

Lord Apollo, the Grand Duke of Praxus, appeared as regal and stately as expected. The royal Praxian possessed a large and powerful frame, elegantly detailed in white, red, silver, and gold. As he stepped into the hall and descended the short, marble steps, Apollo moved with an effortless grace that was uncharacteristic in mechanisms of his stature. Immensely intelligent, warm golden optics kindly scrutinized the black and white prince, who bowed his helm respectfully as the larger mech approached.

"How may I be of service, my lord?" Prowl inquired formally.

The elder royal tisked at the formality. "Always so formal," he sighed amusedly. A servo resting on his second creation's shoulder gently prompted Prowl to gaze upward into the amused face of his sire. "I wish to speak with my creation, as my creation."

A subtle quirk of his lips softened Prowl's otherwise austere, sharp features before it quickly disappeared, though the affection, humor, and easiness remained in their brushing fields. "Of course. What is it, sire?"

Apollo stepped around Prowl, surveying the progress on preparing the hall for the gala. "This all seems to be coming along excellently."

Prowl followed his sire's inspection, unmoving and silent from his spot until the Grand Duke gestured for Prowl to follow as the larger mech strolled toward one of the towering windows. The two royals stood beside each other, one attentive and patient while the other seemed to undergo an internal struggle.

"I know you prefer directness, so I won't delay." The Grand Duke turned to face his creation. "As you know, while it is a celebration of our city-state and a reminder of the significance of the New Light season, the Gala presents opportunities across many domains by gathering the majority of our nobility together, potentially advantageous or detrimental."

Prowl nodded, unclear as to the purpose of this reminder yet. "You know I know this."

He had seen many political bondings secured, trading deals closed, conflicts and feuds incited or resolved, and scandals revealed during the course of a single night. How a mere holiday celebration could have such drastic outcomes, from the clambering for gain on the social ladder by the nobility to the maneuvers for power weaving through the subtlest gesture or single word, gave Prowl the worst processor-aches and the most stress when it came to his attendance and behavior at official appearances. Despite his reserved nature and ingrained sense of propriety, it was exhausting, and it was especially unpleasant since his coming of age and the up-tick in a specific kind of attention he now received.

Apollo turned his gaze to once again look out over the beautiful gardens dusted in snow, though Prowl noted tension in those massive doorwings and the set of the dignified mech's jaw. "You might also recall that your brother discovered his bonded here as well." He paused as the implication sank in.

Prowl did not need the highly advanced features of his unique processor to figure it out. He hummed contemplatively in acknowledgement as he _evaluated_ the implication, though.

Nearly a two and a half centuries previously, at one of Prowl's first gala's where he was allowed to stay up late and watch the dancing and socializing following the banquet from the safety and seclusion of a hidden balcony overlooking the Vitreus Hall, Prowl recalled watching as his older brother danced, spoke, and otherwise became enthralled with a beautiful noble from Crystal City. Ever a socialite, highly amiable in personality, and carrying the promise of substantial rank as he was now the current heir, Crossflare was highly sought after by potential suitors, which he had often bemoaned as he never felt appreciated or desired for himself rather than the perks. However, it was to the surprise of everyone present when Crossflare and the unfamiliar noble from Crystal City's sigils glowed and burst into color as their dance ended. Both sets of creators, and then the other guests flocked to the young mechs, and the ball had transformed into an entirely different kind of celebration. By the end of the next vorn, after extensive planning and negotiations, and after the intended bondmates fulfilled the necessary, physical assessments prior to bonding, his brother was happily bonded.

Was his sire merely reminding him that a similar situation could happen to him? It seemed needlessly extraneous, and in some ways fruitless considering the blank sigil and his slight history of unfulfilling or failed relationships perpetually mocking him. More likely, the Grand Duke may have been approached by another noble family concerning a bonding contract based on compatibility searches. As Prowl surreptitiously observed his sire's unease and sensed the inner turmoil when he slightly extended his field to brush against that of his sire, he was further convinced of his conclusion.

It was no secret and no source of conflict among the immediate royal family that Apollo intended to officially designate Prowl as his successor. Prowl possessed the superior skill and processor set, as well as disposition and drive, to successfully rule Praxus, while Crossflare was better suited to managing its nobility, the social aspects of running the city-state, and fostering strong and favorable relationships and alliances within Praxus and beyond. However, in order for Apollo to choose Prowl over his first creation who was already bonded and, if the veiled hint in his most recent call was true, expecting his first creation, Prowl would need to bond before he could officially be designated as the heir.

Resettling his plating and shifting to relieve the tension he did not recognize had been building, dipping his doorwings respectfully, Prowl angled himself so that he faced his sire more squarely, full attention on the elder mech. Frowning, he hesitated before venturing on cautiously. "Do you mean to inform me that there is an acceptable, proposed contract?"

Apollo glanced at Prowl, a mixture of pride, reluctance, and resignation flashing across his face with a slight, mirthless smile. Reaching into subspace, the Grand Duke wordlessly extracted an official datapad and presented it to Prowl.

Accepting the datapad and pressing the button to online the screen, Prowl read through its contents shrewdly. Indeed, the datapad contained a proposed bonding contract. It included an image of the foreign noble, self-inputted descriptions of the mech's personality, biographical information, the spark compatibility rating, a section detailing the initial, agreeable terms of the bonding, and an additional section containing analyses by his sire - and some snippets he recognized as his own, unwitting work - of the bonding's benefits and potential ramifications to the House and Praxus separately.

Lowering the datapad from his perusal after a breem, Prowl thought a moment, during which Apollo continued to stare out over the Palaise's grounds, stealing occasional, assessing glances at Prowl.

"Based on this information," Prowl said contemplatively, "I see no reason not to consider the proposal. I only ask for the stipulation of meeting face to face before agreeing to the contract, with the right to refuse the proposal after meeting preserved." He gestured nonspecifically at the splendid room behind them. "I assume an invitation was sent?"

Apollo nodded, turning to match Prowl's angle. "Yes, and their attendance is confirmed." Both servos, firm yet gentle, moved to rest on Prowl's shoulders. Prowl noted the sternness in Apollo's expression. "While I am admittedly eager to smooth out my affairs, I do not wish you to rush into bonding. You are young, and it is one of the most important decisions you will make, even a political bonding." He smiled affectionately, insistent and imploring. "Your feelings and contentment matter as much as, if not more than, any privilege or advantage that may result from a bonding."

Prowl stared at the unbending, lovingly concerned expression his sire wore, both sets of optics set in determination. Apollo, as well as Prowl's carrier, Solstice, were aware and understanding of Prowl's penchant for placing duty, tradition, and logic over his desires and intuition.

"I understand," Prowl replied.

Even as he spoke, and even though he would do his best to honor his sire's will to the furthest, feasible extent, Prowl held no disillusion about the reality of his position and its implications on his future bonding. If circumstances required him to choose between his personal desire and the continued strength, sanctity, and thriving of his House and domain, he was determined to protect and prioritize the latter. He held no belief that it would be easy, but he was resolved, and this unconsciously translated into his posture.

A stiff silence settled as Apollo contemplated the resolute stance of his creation, standing tall with doorwings nobly perched in a display of confidence and challenge, though still conveying respectfulness. Albeit slightly vexed, he reflected that he could hardly be prouder.

Nodding definitively, the larger Praxian turned and stepped forward to once again appraise the beautiful hall, exquisitely decorated to accentuate its inherent beauty and create the desired, warm atmosphere for the gala. Prowl also shifted, watching his sire with interest as the regal yet unpretentious mech nodded again in satisfaction.

"Also," Apollo added, glancing over a shoulder and relaxed doorwing at Prowl, who's optics shown with cautious inquisitiveness. "You will perform the Offering of Beneficence." The Grand Duke chuckled at Prowl's evident surprise and veneration at the honor, as well as the brief, sour expression when Prowl considered the spotlight the experience would place on him.

The evening of the Royal Gala was certainly shaping up to be quite a pivotal occasion, and Prowl was uncertain whether to feel more eager or apprehensive as he departed from the hall after his sire and set off for his suite and a necessary call to his older brother.


	2. Chapter 2: The Arrival

_Author's_ Note: Because school has started back, my ability to rapidly update is unfortunately not going to be a wondrous aspect of this piece. However, it will be finished because I am actually pretty excited about it. Just think of it as a little piece of the holidays to carry you through the "grey months," as I refer to January/February, and the year!

Thank you to all who have and are continuing to read, and to those who left kudos and comments. I appreciate the encouragement and your all's feedback.

Now, on with the show!

* * *

 ** _A Royal Encounter_**

 _Chapter 2_

Standing before a collapsible set of mirrors placed in the corner of his berthroom, Jazz frowned as he twisted and rotated about himself, scrupulously assessing his retouched paint and polished plating from every angle. White gleamed against the contrasting swatches of even black, striking blue and red stripe, and the soft glow of his cyan visor. His metallic and glass elements shone from their detailing even in the dim lighting. A pleasant aroma from the limited combination of waxes and oils he reserved for the most special occasions lightly permeated the surrounding air. Typically concealed, petite doorwings which pleasantly accentuated, rather than clashed, with his helm's sensory horns flicked and flared, betraying the nervousness he felt.

Once his creators finally agreed to allow him to attend the gala, Jazz had zealously dedicated his time outside of the joors he worked at the café to preparing for his ephemeral admission into high society. The family spent their evenings coaching Jazz on the astounding wealth of proper etiquette, speech, manners, and awareness of precedence he required to be recognized as acceptable. With Minuet and Mezzo joining in with their beloved roles as the "nobles," Silverstream taught him the repertoire of dances and the associated rules for dancing, how to properly and respectfully address every rank of potentially present nobility, and some of the specific quirks he observed in the elites of Praxus, while Arabesque instructed their creation on the many facets and idiosyncrasies of Praxian noble culture which he must hone, from emotional restraint and refined manners to the traditions, expectations, and prestige.

Despite how seemingly inane, disconcertingly complex, or fruitless each speck of information or practice felt, Jazz never once complained.

Jazz noticed how seemingly frantic and obsessive his creators were in ensuring he was adequately proficient in the skills, etiquette, and manners expected, despite their efforts to mask their concern and trepidation. He understood.

Based on what he learned from his creators, his schooling, and the snippets he overheard from patrons at the café discussing the latest, local gossip publications, the highest echelons of society could be immensely strict and unforgiving, where committing what could even be perceived as a slight against the wrong individual could bring ruinous consequences. His creators must have witnessed such a reality during their centuries performing in the royal court and among the planet's nobility, though Jazz hoped they had never directly experienced its negative side. It explained their current behavior perfectly.

Gradually over the two decaorn period since receiving the invitation, Jazz's copious excitement dimmed under the looming threat of the consequences of any gross misstep. He became nervous, uneasy. However, as his familiarity and proficiency with noble customs improved under his creator's tutelage, he became more confident, which, in turn, restored some of his original spiritedness and eagerness.

Facing his reflection once more and perceiving no discernable flaws under his careful inspection, Jazz gathered and affixed the short, exquisite cloak of white, edged in a braid of silver and sapphire, and lined in light silver. His carrier had carefully draped the beautiful garment across his berth while he spent almost an entire joor in the washracks, ensuring the spotlessness of every crevice of his frame. The cloak was incredibly fine and luxurious in feel, and the expense was definitely a substantial set back.

At his carrier's coaxing, and considering his lack of ownership of other adequate options, they had gone to a higher end shop that specialized in attire for formal occasions. Almost a joor later saw them leaving the store with a date to pick up their purchase, tailored to Jazz's specifications. Initially, Jazz was reluctant to spend their hard-earned shanix on something comparatively trivial when a less expensive option would likely do. However, his ever so practical, ever so proper carrier adamantly and unwaveringly insisted.

"This is a remarkably important event for you, Jazz," She had said as he was guided to an area for his measurements and specifications to be taken in the shop. "I will not settle for a less than perfect presentation of my creation to the Grand Duke and the nobility of Praxus. It is our gift to you and an investment now that you are an adult."

Arranging the soft, luxurious fabric to appealingly accommodate his sensory wings and making minute adjustments, he slowly smiled in appreciation and acceptance. He admitted to himself, his carrier was right. Even though he was not a superficial or vain mech, the importance of a first impression was not lost on him, and this was one he rather liked.

"If ya stare at that mirror much longer, ya might just pass for another one of those pompous, narcissistic glitches over in the Jadeite Heights."

Jazz smirked as he caught sight of his twin in the mirror's reflection, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his black and red chassis and sunglow visor shimmering humorously over his own snarky smirk. "I didn't know you could use such sophisticated words," he shot back affably, turning to face his twin. "Maybe I should be more worried about you, Rico."

An entirely undignified snort left Ricochet as he pushed away from his relaxed leaning and stepped toward Jazz, a long, black cloak trimmed in gold and lined in a dim grey billowing moderately behind him. "I didn't know ya were capable of such _unaccentuated_ speaking." Mindful of the evident effort Jazz applied, Ricochet loosely grasped his twin's shoulders, smirk transitioning into a genuine smile of brotherly affection. "You look good. Better than good."

Ducking his helm, Jazz smiled softly, reaching up to squeeze one of Ricochet's servo appreciatingly. "Thanks." He tilted his helm to better meet his brother's visor. "It's good to see ya." Despite his effort to keep things lighthearted, a thread of hurt still wove its way into his words.

"Yeah," Ricochet replied, shifting his gaze to their overlapping servos. "Same, bro."

Jazz felt guilt and apology flash through his brother's field, prompting his own to extend in unangered forgiveness and undemanding curiosity. "Are you stayin' long?"

"I'm headin' out a couple orns into the new vorn, so a bit."

Jazz nodded, understanding but still a touch resentful.

He and Ricochet grew up close, regardless of the fact that they were twins. However, after completing the minimum, mandated education standard for citizens of Praxus, the twins separated, and their closeness dwindled, although their twin spark connection would always remain. Jazz elected to take some time off as he was uncertain what he wanted to do, while Ricochet moved away and remained secretive about his pursuits and occupations to his twin, going so far as to construct blocks across their twin bond such that Jazz could only sense that his twin was alive and the most extreme sensations. The separation hurt more than Jazz would ever admit to anyone other than his twin, and the lack of explanation further inflamed his bereavement and annoyance.

However, despite recent history, Jazz resolved to not let it adversely affect their limited time together, especially on this significant night.

"Speakin' of time," Ricochet suddenly said. "Carrier said it's time to go. So, if you're finished preening," Ricochet reached over Jazz's shoulder to obnoxiously tweak the tip of a sensory panel, receiving an indignant swat for his mischievous deed as Jazz stepped back to escape the touch. "Let's go show those nobles just how cultivated and eloquent us common folk can be."

Jazz moved to follow his brother, only to trip as he somehow managed to step on his cloak.

Ricochet smirked and snickered at the less then graceful step. "Some of us, at least."

As their shared berthroom was at the end of the hallway on the right side, the two brothers walked down the hallway and into the living area of the home where Arabesque stood by the larger windows. Underneath a dark green cloak for additional warmth in the constant, moderate snow falling outside, the femme wore a sheer, shimmering cape which wrapped around and accentuated her slight frame. She secured the cape with a small, highly ornate pin with a beautiful array of tiny jade crystals set into its center.

Another femme relaxed on the comfortable sofa. Jazz identified her as one of their neighbors who agreed to watch over Minuet, Mezzo, and Coda while their creators and the twin brothers attended the gala. He smiled and greeted her warmly.

At the sound of Jazz's voice, Arabesque spun to appraise her eldest creations. Both gave long-suffering sighs at the calculating assessment, earning a pointed look from their carrier before receiving an approving nod, a soft smile curving her lips. "Our transport should arrive at any moment. Let's go."

Repeating a few final instructions to their neighbor and receiving the femme's reassurance, Arabesque lead the trio as they exited their home.

They walked part way down the length of the plain, warmly lit hallway to the lift, which they rode in silence to the ground floor and lobby of their complex. Clustering at the windowed front of the building, Jazz gasped in audible surprise as a gleaming silver, private transport glided to a stop before their entrance. Arabesque and Ricochet grinned amusedly at him as the former corralled the twins out the door and towards the awaiting transport.

A panel along its side, near the front, opened upward, and a small set of steps unfolded to assist its passengers' entry. Upon entry, Jazz continued to marvel at the surprising luxury for the evening. When he heard that his carrier, brother, and self would take a transport to reach the Palaise, meeting their sire who had to report earlier because of his role in the night's festivities, Jazz expected that that they would catch one of the public transports to reach one of the stops close to the royal residence, and then they would trek the remaining distance.

While sharing was a necessity given the expense, explaining the handful of other mechs and femmes Jazz vaguely recognized, he was thrilled and appreciative of the experience.

The interior was splendidly furnished with plush seating in light, natural hues and warms accents that seemed more like the well-appointed interior of a home rather than a temporary shelter for a more rapid, less strenuous form of ground transport across the city. Generous, one-way windows invisible from the exterior of the transport lined the walls and offered glimpses of the different parts of the city as they swiftly sped past. A wall with a closed door at the front separated the cockpit of the transport from the passenger lounge as the transport was non-sentient.

As his carrier smoothly settled alongside a mech Jazz recognized as the bond of another performing artiste favored by the House of the Crystal Saber, he felt a tug and suddenly found himself sprawled inelegantly alongside his brother. Glaring at Ricochet's cheeky expression, exposed sensory panels twitching in displeasure and discomfort, Jazz immediately clambered to a more dignified and comfortable position. He pointedly ignored his brother's snigger as he peered out the window at his side.

Snow floated and swirled through the darkening air, covering everything in a beautiful, glistening blanket of the purest white. They were travelling away from the center of the city along a wide road that cut through the center of the affluent regions of Praxus, a road which lead directly to the front gate of the Palaise. Here, the layout shifted from clustered towers and complexes to free-standing houses, extravagant estates, and, closer to the city center, lavish towers with gated grounds. As a testament to the increasing wealth and power of the mecha who lived in this part of Praxus, the distance between individual residences increased the closer to arrival at their destination.

"By Primus, is that really little Jazz and Ricochet?" Inquired an especially buoyant femme of mint, light blue, and white, donning a simple, quality cape of navy. The stunned exclamation reclaimed Jazz's attention from their passing surroundings. "My, how handsome!"

Additional exclamations and subsequent inquiries by most of their fellow guests were had. Uncharacteristic bashfulness and self-consciousness overcame Jazz and his twin.

Jazz smiled graciously at the compliments, feeling markedly its boost to his ego. He hardly remembered any of these mecha, but his carrier had taught him to always be polite.

Arabesque responded to each cordially and tactfully. She answered queries after her bonded and other creations, made her own inquiries, diverted the attention away from her creations to other subjects of interest, and sought to temper any fuel for excessively bolstering of their egos. They needed suitable confidence going into the gala, but overly prideful, cocky, or presumptuous attitudes would spell certain trouble.

Eventually the older mechs and femmes caught up with each other and conversation finally shifted away from the trio. Jazz relaxed in frame as they did, though he idly picked at and smoothed the edge of his silver cloak in nervousness. Exhilaration, joy, worry, perturbation, expectation, gaiety, and hope whirled within him. He hoped the gala would meet or exceed his expectations, and he prayed that he would not do anything that could have negative repercussions, especially on his family.

"Don't think I've ever seen ya so quiet." Jazz glanced to his right. His brother's openly concerned expression matched the questioning, encouraging pulse he sensed across the typically silent bond. A charcoal grey servo settled over his absently fidgeting servo.

Jazz shrugged. "Just a lil' nervous." And he struggled with his irritation at that fact. Even in spite of the influence of others' emotions and nerves, he usually managed his nerves excellently, projecting infectiously calm confidence and determined, unflinching optimism. However, for a frustratingly inexplicable reason, that was not the case now.

A gentle squeeze to his servo and an affectionate, delicate tweak to an audial horn preceded a response. "Understatement of the millennium, bro. Look around us." Ricochet subtly gestured around the transport. "Everyone here is nervous. You'd be a damn fool not to be."

"Not very reassurin', Rico," Jazz muttered.

"Wasn't tryin' to be. I just don't want to be the innocent bystander that gets slagged when something snaps from all that tension buildin' up in you right now."

Despite himself, Jazz huffed a soft laugh. Leave it to Ricochet to be his usual, unhelpful glitch self. The familiarity helped to ease some of the accumulating tension.

Their carrier pointedly cleared her vents, leveling a piercing look at her eldest creation. "Language!"

Ricochet flashed a sharp, brazen smile at her, prompting Jazz's unrestrained mirth to escape in a snigger.

Ricochet had at least some familiarity with the nobility and high society, thus, he knew when he could get away with relaxing his accent, mannerisms, and various other tortures of oppressive restraint. At the moment, he was staunchly violating the burdensome rules and etiquette he would be forced to apply or emulate for the rest of the evening. The tragedy.

Arabesque's unamused, though softening, optics slid to Jazz. "Please try and remember what we taught you. Your sire and I trust that you are ready and capable. Otherwise, you would not be here." She leaned forward slightly, earnest in tone. "Have confidence in that support, the fact that you were explicitly invited and, therefore, belong, and the effort you put into preparing. Do so, and you just might find this evening to be as enjoyable as you hoped."

She smiled softly at both of her creations before turning to look out the window, optics flashing in fond recognition. "Look," she said, pointing to the window.

Jazz scrambled to once again peer out the window, placing a servo against the window. "Wow!" He exclaimed in breathless awe.

Directly ahead, he spotted the Royal Palaise of Praxus, the official residence of the Sovereign Grand Duke and the House of the Crystal Saber.

The Palaise was wondrously, overwhelmingly magnificent in scale, detail, and grandeur. A long drive dotted with illumination stretched a mile and a half from the main highway to a widened clearing with a spacious, splendid fountain of radiant, prismatic crystal. Lavish transports of other guests wound around the fountain like a string of gemstones, emptying guests at the base of the grand, branched steps of carved marble. Cleared expanses and a neat row of towering, dazzling growths of tree-like crystals lined both sides of the Long Walk, as it was referred to by citizens, textbooks, and documentaries alike.

The central chateau stood centered with the Long Walk, glowing invitingly. Predominantly a vintage white with elegantly arrayed growths of clear, pearly crystals, the very center of the chateau protruded slightly with a large balcony, clusters of columns in rounded levels, numerous lit windows, and an exquisite, classically splendid façade with the shield of the Royal House set in lustrous gold at the pinnacle crest. Complementary protrusions framed the broad spans of rows of windows which decreased slightly in size with each level, exaggerating the tremendous size of the residence. It was monumental, considerably taller than the massive, protracted wings which stretched away, back from, and were set further behind the prominent chateau. The wings of the Palaise displayed a complementary façade to the dominant chateau, with ornamental structures evenly spaced across and extending from the roof connected by gilded balustrades.

As their transport turned to travel up the Long Walk, Jazz received a brief, exceptional glimpse of those immense extensions of the Palaise before they passed out of sight, replaced by the subtly illuminated, snow-covered grounds. Unconsciously, the servo resting in his lap clenched, sensory panels lifted slightly and quivered. This was it. This was where everything came to fruition.

He felt like he could purge from his warring excitement and nervousness.

A brief look from the corner of his polished, crystalline visor told him that while his carrier, who was chatting with the mech sitting next to her, and his brother were masking it far more expertly than himself, they were also on edge. Restless, faintly trembling sensory panels; a deliberately relaxed, slightly reclined position with arms crossed over chassis; a dimmed visor over a neutral expression. In their own way, each indicated to Jazz's knowing optic the respective individual's mood, confirming what he felt over the partially reopened twin bond and the fainter creator-creation bond that flickered to conscious perception every now and then.

Glancing around, he noticed the other passengers resettling into seats and, for many, combing over their appearance one last time. Anticipation electrified the quiet air as the transport slowed, assuming its position in the queue to discharge its travelers.

As he buried his urge to shift and fidget anxiously, Jazz gazed at the flowing fountain they were now circling, experiencing a soothing calmness from the tranquility of the ethereal mist and the trickling of fluid down the curves, protrusions, and points of the brilliant crystals. So long as he did nothing truly, intentionally heinous or universally repugnant, which he felt was impossible given the amount of pressure he was placing on this night, he should be fine. More than fine. He held no assumption that he could please everyone; there was always someone who will be displeased, dissatisfied, or indignant.

Finally, after many tangibly unnoticed stops and starts, and after letting a couple of especially wealthy appearing transports pass ahead, their modest transport glided to a halt, panel opening and small stairs descending from their storage.

"It appears we have arrived, my dear, gentlemechs," the mech who was chatting with their carrier proclaimed, promptly rising from his seat. "Jazz, Ricochet, in case our paths don't cross again tonight, it was a pleasure to see you both again. Take care and enjoy this evening!" He eagerly strode to the hatch and disappeared outside. Nice mech, Jazz thought.

Ricochet sprung to his peds first, offering his servo to assist their carrier. Jazz smirked at the courteousness and genteel manners, which were at such odds with his brother's usual, relaxed and wayward behavior. Such affectation and manners might be annoyingly superficial, cumbersome, unmeaningfully ritualistic, or ridiculously melodramatic, especially when he was attempting to avoid insulting an influential noble. But, they could be highly entertaining when they were such a clear contrast to the typical character of a person, like his brother.

"Come, Jazz," Arabesque pulled on his servo, prompting him to rise as well and follow them to the exit of the transport.

As he waited for his carrier and brother to finish stepping down, Jazz lightly tapped on the door separating the cockpit from the passenger area and quietly thanked their pilot through the closed door. Without waiting for a reply, he stepped forward and regarded the scene before him with a slight grin and flicker of enchantment.

Standing just off to the side of the crimson and silver-trimmed carpet, which Jazz now stood on, waited happily the family members of those who were on their transport. With the exception of themselves, each of the handful of mechs and femmes were bondmates. At the left-most end, Jazz spotted his beaming, immaculately detailed sire appreciatively admiring his carrier and endearingly complementing his brother, chuckling at some shared amusement or joke. Catching sight of him, Silverstream waved him over with an approving, cherishing smile.

Jazz smiled radiantly as he rejoined his family.

"You look absolutely spectacular, Jazz," Silverstream exclaimed as Arabesque reached out to smooth some imaginary wrinkle or crease in his cloak.

He resisted the urge to roll his optics in insincere exasperation at his carrier, despite that his visor would hide the gesture. Sensory panels dipped slightly in gratitude before resuming their natural angle, faintly vibrating as delight, awe, and edgy anticipation suffused his field.

"Thanks," he replied simply, distracted by the sight of elegantly, often splendidly adorned and detailed mechs and femmes climbing the beautiful marble steps and disappearing through the massive, twin doors of gold, silver, and crystal. Guards stood unflinching to either side of the enormous entrance, as well as in strategic and accentuating placements surrounding the arriving guests on the front court.

An especially lavish, ornamented transport had just offloaded two particularly noble appearing mechs. They seemed to glide effortlessly as they walked past. Jazz and his family received calculating, slightly surly frowns from them, though no words were exchanged.

Jazz noted that his parents pointedly ignored the unpleasant, veiledly haughty expressions, his sire surreptitiously drawing Jazz closer to them with a tug on a wrist. Ricochet's engine quietly rumbled in challenging irritation before Arabesque subtly pinched a sensitive cable on her eldest, reminding him to keep collected.

Someone was always displeased, he reminded himself. Hopefully, the entire night would not be filled with a sea of similar expressions focused exclusively on him. At the very least, he consoled himself, he would be able to amuse himself with their efforts to mask their distaste behind the proper amount of politeness.

With a relieved sigh once the two likely nobles were past, Silverstream smiled again and guided his mate's arm to his own. "Well then," he said nonchalantly, as though nothing invidious had occurred. "Shall we?" He gestured toward the entrance. Fanning her sensory panels, likely releasing her tension and pent up ire, Arabesque nodded and rubbed Silverstream's arm reassuringly. The two set off, trusting their creations to follow.

Ricochet fell in to step next to Jazz. "Well, won't this be pleasant," he muttered sardonically.

Jazz smiled slyly, lightheartedly bumping his cloaked shoulder against that of his brother. "At least they'll have to be all civilized and decorous about it." He shared his mirth before sobering. As entertaining as the thought was to him, he truly did hope for some respite. At the very least, according to common knowledge and his creators' own recounts, the royal family was typically less condescending and more genuinely gracious and amicable toward those of less than noble origins. He hoped that was true in his upcoming experiences.

"I don't know," Jazz continued as they ascended the impressive marble steps, his left servo carefully, almost reverently, brushing along the stunning foliage carvings, inset crystals, and smooth, cool expanses covered in a layer of snow. "Surely they all can't be like that, or like that all night."

Ricochet hummed uneasily, glancing at Jazz underneath the veil of his visor. Jazz sensed his perturbed sentiment and reservation, as well as a sense of indecision. What did his brother know that he did not?

Sensory panels bristling subtly, Jazz was about demand a clarification, but the words died on his lips as he gaped in awe when they stepped through the exquisite, opened doors.

They entered into a massive hall with soaring ceilings. The hall itself, with its many yet airily spaced columns and immense windows, was tastefully decorated with additional lights and complementary, glistening crystals of whites, light blues, amber, and clear. To either side, narrower, though no less grand sets of stairs led up to a sizeable balcony, passing over closed doors into other rooms and wrapping around the entire hall. An additional walkway passed over both levels of the hall even higher and further back. Directly ahead, a grand staircase extended with a slight, curved flare at its base. Wondrously sculpted, complementary figures of crystal - and of unknown significance to Jazz - poised magnificently underneath warmly glowing, baroque chandeliers attached on the ends of the intricately carved banister.

Enraptured, visored gaze travelling up the grand staircase, Jazz faintly gasped at the sight above. There stood the royal family, stately, resplendent, and kindly greeting guests as they were announced. The staircase crested in a wide platform, spanning across the hall, on which a marble riser was centered before another dwarfing set of ornate double doors, framed by large, regal, imposing statues. In the center, the Grand Duke of Praxus stood, flanked by his two bondeds, Lord and Lady Consorts Cambria and Solstice. On either side of lord's consorts, the princes patiently stood. Prince Crossflare, the heir presumptive, stood between his bonded and Lord Consort Cambria, while the younger Prince Prowl stood next to Lady Consort Solstice.

Before Jazz could do more than identify each member, he and his family were prompted to shuffle to their right, joining yet another queue. This one was for announcing each guest.

As he stood in the line, continuing to marvel at the architecture of the Palaise's interior, his sensitive horns subtly twitched and his wings perked up at the thrum of voices and the soft, warm music of a miniature, classical ensemble. Despite the overwhelming scale, history, and grandeur of the setting, as well as the less than pleasant looks thrown their way by those further up in the line, the atmosphere was overall warm, inviting, and enchanting to the hybrid black and white mech. Hearing the periodic heralding of the viscount of such place and the earl of that place, with the occasional, fashionably late duke or even prince (from another province) thrown in too, Jazz suppressed his renewing nerves with conversation with his family and those surrounding them, swaying slightly with the flowing, captivating wafts of music, and continuing his awed appreciation of the grand chateau.

 ** _~o~_**

Prowl stifled a tired sigh of relief and exasperation as a particularly conceited viscount finally strolled onward with his more sensible, though still affective and pretentious bonded. One of his sire's preferred traditions was personally greeting every guest to the Royal Gala as they arrived, regardless of rank or social, political, or economic importance, and Lord Apollo firmly insisted that every family member in attendance be present.

"It allows a ruler to connect with his people, show them that he sincerely cares, put a face to the statistics, while simultaneously gauging the state of his people. It is a way to keep informed, all within the bounds of the expected traditions and propriety to appease the nobility." His sire had explained many vorns ago.

It actually made sense to Prowl too. In fact, it was quite an elegant system of appeasing one group of Praxian citizens, including representative members of another, and purposefully bringing all together in a hopefully enjoyable evening in celebration of a wonderful time of the vorn and of the continued prosperity of Praxus.

Prowl knew it to be a lost cause to request exemption from the tradition. Thus, he stood on the riser with his family, immaculately detailed such that his white plating gleamed lustrously, his striking red chevron with its central, golden crest practically glowed, and his gold, silver, and glass accents glistened. He also wore a stately black cloak which complemented that of his sire, lined in silver and exterior beautifully embroidered with the intertwined crest of their House with the emblem of the Primes, a visual testament to their loyal, counseling subservience to the Lord Prime. Additionally, like his other family members though with an emphasis on accentuation and quality over quantity, he wore a selection of jewel, crystal, and precious metal adornments that accentuated the royal aspect of his presence.

As the next guests were announced by the designated herald, Prowl straightened in preparation for another round of the hardly varying greeting.

The announced guests would approach deferentially, in this instance a silver and navy marquis draped in a scarlet cloak with his bondmate, a navy and white mech wearing a translucent, shimmering wrap of a silvery light blue. The guests would offer their reverence: a bow of varying depth, depending on their rank and the current state of their official relation to the Grand Duke, was typical, though some femmes fell back on the older convention of a curtsey. In this case, the marquis and his bonded both offered a slow bow of the helm, appropriate for their standing.

Lord Apollo would then step to the edge of the platform and, at the least, offer and dignifiedly touch or shake the servo of the guest and their companion while verbally welcoming them to his home. As his sire did now, he would typically introduce his bondmates as well; it humored Prowl how he deliberately alternated which he introduced first in order to avoid the excruciating displeasure one would radiate if always introduced second. If his sire was on particularly good terms with a guest, or if he was seeking some other goal or outcome through a guest's attendance for the evening, he would introduce specific family members, either from present company or as an obligation for later in the evening. That was not the case, thankfully.

After this was complete, the guest would offer their gratitude or whatever other parting remarks or information they felt needed to be shared, and then they would move on to join the other mingling guests. This step was often where the procession slowed to a glacial crawl.

Then, his sire would reposition himself, and the process would repeat. Prowl would spend those precious moments concentrating on stilling his wings, which vehemently desired to flare, fan, flick, and bristle with each encounter. They were beginning to ache with the amount of tension produced by his effort.

The reception was theatrical, repetitive, and long. While he understood its usefulness, Prowl merely tolerated the display and had to fight to keep his dislike for the experience from crossing his otherwise solemn but courteous expression. His carrier, Solstice, occasionally massaged a furtive, soothing servo against the nearest wing hinge in encouraging reassurance and tender care. Prowl cast a sidelong glance at the serene seeker femme of white and gold, catching her knowing, calming, azure gaze before once again returning his attention to the next announced guest.

Thankfully, the affair became less cumbersome, artificially genteel, and maddening. Most of the higher-ranking nobility, who were often the most ostentatious and interested in promoting their own gain through the subtle complexities of their ornate, seemingly gratuitous language and obsequious clinging to formality, were always introduced first, regardless of when they actually arrived. However, he had to admit that notable exceptions existed.

To his relief, one of those exceptions had been the Protihexian noble mech and his ducal family who were pursuing the bonding contract. The courtesy-titled marquis named Vida had an exceptional, effortless poise with which he carried his primarily white frame, highlighted with light blue and accents of a light silver. Vida was clearly strong - as would be required in a mate for a potential heir of the House of Crystal Saber - but attractively slight, and he was slightly shorter than Prowl. From the introduction, Prowl discerned that he was a knowledgeable, amiable individual with a particularly charming aura. Overall, the mech was intriguing and enticing in a way that disconcerted Prowl. However, he chalked up the latter sense to a lack of familiarity.

Another viscount, baron, and earl passed through the reception.

By this time as Prowl checked his internal chronometer, and based on his earlier review of the final guest list, the remaining guests should be of the lower nobility, gentry, and honored untitled. While this meant his personal engagement increased in each introduction, it also meant that the exchanges became less of a cultivated, polite verbal sparring match. Here was where he met the most interesting mecha, from artisans and academics to musicians and knights of the military order. They were most memorable to him.

Eventually, he could spot the end of the procession of arriving guests as the front entrance was closed. It was like a switch of energy was turned on in him, though he refrained from showing it.

:: Careful, Prowl. :: His sensory panels shifted inquisitively as he stepped up to his sire's side at a prompting gesture from the impressive lord. :: If sire catches you trying to rush any of this, he will not be pleased. ::

Prowl lightly shook the servo of a profusely awed mech, offering the subtlest of smiles as their conjoined servos seemed to be all that was keeping the mech from falling over.

:: I have not a clue as to what you are referring, Crossflare. :: Prowl replied deadpan over their tightly encrypted, lowest energy comm. link possible. It would not do for others to sense transmissions passing between the princes in this setting; it could be taken the wrong way.

:: Sure :: Crossflare replied, his unconvinced humor evident in his tone. :: Says the mech who, vorn after vorn, _prudently_ requests the pre-dinner mingling be abbreviated to accommodate the kitchen staff who are _somehow_ ahead of schedule, despite the _scrupulous_ planning that goes into the timeline. ::

As the overwhelmed mech finally moved on and he returned to his spot, Prowl directed a pointed, cool gaze at his brother, his expression otherwise inscrutable. :: I repeat, I have no clue what you are talking about. ::

Crossflare's black sensory panels with a red stripe running along the upper edge fluttered slightly in contained amusement. However, both princes froze, optics widening ever so slightly as their sire levelled a knowing look at each.

A new line lightly crackled with static as it was established. :: If you two are going to use the comm., at least try to appear less blatant when you think you have been caught. :: Apollo chuckled over the line.

:: Apologies, sire :: Prowl replied remorsefully, dipping his helm subtly.

:: Sorry. :: Crossflare echoed.

All lines fell silent as the three mechs repositioned themselves for the next set of guests.

 ** _~o~_**

Finally, Jazz mentally exclaimed as he and his family were prompted by an aide to ascend the grand staircase. Insecurity, nerves, and excitement roiled within him as he began to climb the beautiful steps, following his creators and beside his brother. He was about to meet His Royal Highness, the Grand Duke of Praxus, Lord Apollo himself, not to mention he would likely meet some of the royal family as well. He had observed the pattern during their wait, attempting to gauge his expectation of their own encounter.

At the moment, though, he was more concerned with avoiding a faceplant from his slightly shaky legs. Small sensory panels fluttered slightly as he approached the top, catching a glimpse from the corner of his optic at the multitude of Cybertronians, predominantly Praxians, filling the vast upper level of the hall, which extended further back than he initially thought.

As their creators instructed, once they reached the top, Jazz and Ricochet stepped to the side such that they were a pace or two behind and offset from their creators.

"Sir Silverstream of Polyhex and Lady Arabesque of Praxus, accompanied by their eldest creations, Messieurs Ricochet and Jazz," the unseen herald announced. Mirroring his brother and sire, Jazz dipped into a polite bow, sensory panels also lowering deferentially, the same which he had practiced and perfected for nearly two decaorns; his carrier adhered to the older tradition of a curtsey.

A shifting, approaching glint from pristine plating and adornments spurred Jazz to stand upright once more, attentive, respectful, and placid. His sensory panels remained momentarily lowered in continued reverence before smoothly rising to a neutral perk. Glancing upward, he felt simultaneously exhilarated, elevated, and intimidated by the stately, formidably massive lord. The Grand Duke was an exceptionally splendent Praxian of sizeable proportion, and Jazz considered and admired how he seemed to preeminently embody the look and demeanor of a noble and reigning head of state. Yet, to Jazz, there was something decidedly different about this regal, dignified mech that was different from the aristocratic element, something decidedly altruistic, earnestly fair and sincere, and warm. It was almost indefinable outside of a knowledge of this mech's style of rule, but it was undeniably apparent.

An astute, intelligent, benevolent gaze of amber regarded each of them, and Jazz felt nearly overwhelming self-consciousness and nervousness prickle across his plating when that penetrating scrutiny fixed on him. He stood still, covertly meeting the gaze directly through his visor, reminding himself to remain relaxed rather than achingly stiff, willing his sensory panels to not shudder or bristle with near success. It was like his entire being was open to be read, but the mindful lord balanced that penetrative openness with warm consideration. It could only have been mere nanokliks, but the moment felt like an eternity.

As sudden as the attention settled on him, it shifted to his sire. A modest, welcoming smile filled with properly modulated familiarity graced Lord Apollo's countenance. "It is my sincere joy to welcome you to my home on this wonderful evening, Sir Silverstream," the grand duke proclaimed, gracefully extending a servo to Silverstream.

Jazz thought he detected a slight stress and liberal, irregular inflection subtly emphasized on the title which he could not place. It clearly was not a snub of any sort, and the flickers of _honored_ - _amused_ - _humbled_ across his sire's expression and undoubtedly saturating his field in part indicated his understanding of the lord's intent. What could it mean? It must have something to do with that title, which Jazz had no recollection of his sire every receiving. It had had been bugging him since the invitation arrived at their home.

Amidst his musings, he entirely missed his sire's response and the abbreviated, ensuing exchange.

"Lady Arabesque," the Grand Duke acknowledged Jazz's carrier, great sensory panels dipping slightly in welcome and approbation. "It is always a pleasure to be graced with your presence here in the Palaise. I also offer my belated congratulations on the separation of your newest sparkling. May her life be filled with joy, peace, purpose, and the blessing of Primus."

With astonishment thinly veiled beneath a countenance of honored, gracious hospitability, Jazz's carrier dipped her own doorwings, sweeping them outward, and then lifting them upward before returning them to their natural situation.

"Thank you, your royal highness," Arabesque replied formally, deep pleasure and vast gratitude evident in her voice. "The pleasure is assuredly mine."

The Grand Duke's interaction with Ricochet was slighter in length, and there was definitely a pleasant familiarity that was discernable to Jazz. This perplexed Jazz because he knew his brother had never officially attended an occasion where he might have come in contact with the reigning lord. However, that thought thread was immediately shunted aside and dropped as Lord Apollo shifted to stand before him.

"Monsieur Jazz, I am gratified to finally make your acquaintance." A large, white servo that was a charcoal grey on its anterior surface elegantly suspended before him.

He tilted his helm back slightly, glowing blue visor meeting kind optics, before carefully reaching out and softly touching his servo to that of the Grand Duke. There was a momentary pause, expectation and an inkling of awkwardness settling over the interaction before Jazz remembered that he _actually_ needed to speak.

"Thank you for your most kind extension of an invitation, my lo-," he quickly caught himself, "your royal highness." Primus, he hoped he at least sounded more confident than that felt to him. He pointedly focused on their touching servos, avoiding the glint of offense he just knew he would find in that noble expression and those amber optics.

A gentle squeeze to his comparatively diminutive servo, and the feel of a brush of reassurance and warm benevolence against his tightly compressed, turbulent field prompted him to cautiously meet Lord Apollo's optics to find a look of kind understanding directed at him. Relieved, sensory wings unconsciously fluttering minutely behind his helm, Jazz smiled sheepishly then softly, lowering his black servo.

Lord Apollo glanced over his shoulder in contemplation before introducing each of his present family members. His first bonded, Lord Consort Cambria, was civil in his regard, though it seemed to Jazz that his interaction with them was more a formality and duty than the pleasure it was purported to be. Lady Consort Solstice, the Grand Duke's second bonded but First Chosen, was explicitly more gracious and sincere. Of the two bondeds, Jazz preferred her. Prince Crossflare, heir presumptive, entirely fulfilled Jazz's expectation of what he would be like. He was endearingly charming, flawlessly courteous in a way that never hinted at affectation, and every bit as noble as his sire. Additionally, Jazz could not deny that the prince's bonded perfectly complemented him.

That left one more mech.

"My youngest creation, Prince Prowl," Lord Apollo introduced, gesturing to the exquisite yet unassuming Praxian who was, in Jazz's mind, undoubtedly the most intriguingly handsome mech he had beheld...outside of some particularly risqué files his brother had secretly snuck into their home and shown Jazz when they were younger. Even then, the black and white prince with a striking crimson chevron, enhancing accents of the same hue, and lustrous details of gold and silver was far superior and captivating.

The beautiful royal strode the few steps forward, sensory wings swept elegantly behind and gait graceful. The only deficit Jazz noted was the mech's expression, which was decidedly impassive with a formality that almost made him seem aloof, an impression which was exacerbated by his sharp, icy, but admittedly dazzling optics. Never had Jazz felt so conflicted by a single mech based solely on their frame; he wanted to step backward in preservation and aversion, yet he also felt compelled to absorb as much as he could of this mech, intrigued, enticed. It was spark deep.

As Jazz simply stared appreciatively yet conflictingly at the prince, his creators and brother each dipped their helms in greeting. Casting a questioning glance at the grand duke and receiving an acquiescing nod, Prowl extended his slender white servo out to Jazz in an elegantly refined, measured manner.

Compelled by a mysterious entity newly flourishing within him that was insistent on enlightening and studying the evident complexities of this mech beneath that impassive façade, invigorating him with a sudden burst of confidence and gall, Jazz delicately caught the prince's servo in his own and placed a courtly kiss on the back of that immaculate servo with a slight bow. While a little unconventional, he recalled that the gesture was technically appropriate, merely more theatrical and familiar.

He tilted his helm slightly as he rose, gazing through his visor as a stunned expression flashed microscopically across the mech's face, optics slightly widened and doorwings stiff and heightened. Jazz noted almost triumphantly, and definitely with relief, that the mech did not immediately jerk his servo away or swat him - wouldn't that have been a sight - but, instead, allowed Jazz to lower the captive servo before releasing it.

As the sensation which overcame him began to wane when he stepped back and returned to his position, his perception of his surroundings flooded back to his awareness, making him a touch fretful. Astonishment, affront, amusement, mortification, and indignation colored the resulting, tense undercurrent, particularly among those gathered, but also throughout the hall. Hushed and more overt whispers circulated infectiously like the influence of a single ripple through a still pond.

All of the royals were careful to school their expressions and seem as though they were overlooking the gaffe. However, Jazz detected pieces of their genuine reactions before tempering. Lord Cambria seemed the most displeased. Jazz's mortified carrier followed closely in that ranking, sapphire blue optics wide and doorwings bristling in aghast. Although bemused, Lord Apollo frowned slightly, endeavoring to steer attention away from the display. Shooting his own frown at Jazz, his sire followed the Grand Duke's example. Lady Solstice silently stared at Jazz contemplatively with unnerving, unwavering focus. Both older brothers appeared especially amused, but uncertainty and concern also tinged Ricochet's expression as his concealed optics flitted between Jazz, Prowl, and Apollo.

Lastly, Jazz's gaze covertly shifted to the prince. The recipient himself seemed frozen, lips infinitesimally parted, optics staring blankly at his curled servo, sensory panels flicking irregularly, as if in a fluctuating pulse, in thought. Jazz's brow furrowed slightly in concern at the lack of a typical response, hoping he had not truly offended the prince, placed him in a difficult situation, or inadvertently set something off in the mech.

Prowl only moved again when a long, slender white servo gently wrapped around his arm and guided him back. The white, gold, and black seeker femme whispered something into her creation's audial, prompting both to glance downward at the glaring servo before relief, and perhaps a touch of what seemed to be disappointment or melancholy in Prowl, caused wings and sensory panels to sag and relax, while still remaining at an appropriate level for the festive, noble occasion.

The family patriarchs completed the ritualistic final welcome and invitation to fully partake in the evening's festivities and amenities, and then Jazz felt a firm servo pressing against his back, swiftly guiding him away from the royal family and deeper into the sea of guests, yet not so hurried as to attract unnecessary attention. However, Jazz was keenly aware of the calculating glances he occasionally received as they slid through the crowd.

"What was that, Jazz?" Silverstream whispered harshly.

Jazz looked up at his sire's unamused, confounded, and perturbed frown with his own, slight frown of indignation. "It's not improper. Some might even say it's preferable, more respectful or decorous," he defended.

"Not when a royal clearly intended for you to touch, at most shake, their servo. Primus, Jazz," Arabesque chided. "You don't make the rules."

Jazz sighed as he shuffled between his berating creators. As he moved away, Jazz subtly glanced over his shoulder as he heard the next guest and family announced, watching as the black and white prince stood calm, decorous, and unruffled, as though no breach in protocol was just committed. It was amazing in a way, the compartmentalization such composure must require.

Jazz knew his creators' admonishment would not last long as it honestly was not _that_ terrible of a mistake. By the time they would find a comfortable space from which to survey the hall and guests, as well as reconvene if they became separated, his creators would be back to their normal selves, his sire would slip away for whatever part he had to play in the gala's festivities, and his brother would be discreetly teasing him around speaking with an occasional, familiar face or contributing to the bantering commentary about the noble guests, from style to reputation to mannerisms, between the two twins.

Unseen behind the retreating party, contemplative optics of pale blue keenly followed the flickering, petite sensory panels of the bold, attractive creation of a peerless baronet, white servo softly clutched and resting against the chest plating above his spark.

* * *

 _Music Accompaniment and Inspiration:  
_ The Nutcracker: Scene I (The Christmas Tree) by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, performed by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra

 _Author's Note:_ The Royal Palaise is inspired by a smattering of real-life locations, some of which I have had the fortune of visiting myself. The central chateau is essentially Buckingham Palace, but taller and with more ornamentation in the style of Gresham Palace/Four Seasons hotel in Budapest and Upper Belvedere with a split step entrance similar to that of Fontainebleau (taller doors, though). Wings are set back rather than forward, but the entirety is on the scale of Versailles. The grounds/gardens/park are largely inspired by those of Versailles and the landscape around the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, NC. The Long Walk is very much like that at Windsor, and the front court is a cross of the front lawn at the Biltmore Estate and the front of Ludwigsburg Palace. The hall is a mix of a random, sketch design I found while Googling all this and the primary inspiration the grand staircase, which is inspired by that of the Palais Garnier (the center platform is on level with the upper floor, wider, and deeper). The Vitreus Hall is positioned behind it, and it is like the Hall of Mirrors from Versailles, but much wider and larger, and set up slightly different.


End file.
